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poetry
Gert Strydom, 7 december 2015
Would my words
Would my words keep filling you with hope
and would you still stay true to me
although time passes in years
while your humanity feels sold out?
Would I still be able to trust you
and hold you tight
when the vortex of life wants to swallow me
and will we still be able to built a life together
when my career is falling apart
and the thunder of destiny does lash out around me
and I have lost every friend
and stand alone in the entire universe?
Or do you live in a world with hues of grey
while I still proof true to you?
Satish Verma, 7 december 2015
A Kiss Melts
Turning me blue
blithe thoughts had come like snakes
wriggling, biting, leaving tooth marks.
I remained holding a dew drop
on the blade of grass.
Essence was untouched.
Night will change its dialect
after a casual death.
I contrive no more assemblage.
No condolence for the razed home.
The flames will leap again from words
to describe the inspiration, as the
sprouts break the earth.
When the logic ends
a kiss melts on the lips of fire.
The rainbow pierces the clouds
At the interface of sky.
Gert Strydom, 6 december 2015
When the front door
When the front door does close behind you
and the house awaits me without a sound
when some of the furniture is missing
and does leave open space and no children do laugh
then I will try to forget you
and hear the dogs howling heart broken
but in my heart I will know
that something of our love is still hiding there
and I will keep longing
as if seeing you again
just depends on the next moment
but know that the goodbye
does remain the reality between us
without reconciliation between you and me.
Satish Verma, 6 december 2015
Feet Of Clay
Who am I to know
the abstract silence
when you drink the moonlight all alone?
The black toes of a dying woman
haunt me in a stream
of white shrouds. A night
of shattering perceptions,
defaults and ignorance.
Time bomb was ticking.
It had been troubling me
the betrayals in night
mothering a vegetable past.
A single finger defines
the authority of future.
I traced the proud shadows of a god for,
a useless reference of illegible wisdom,
untold misery of green waves mirrored in sky.
For extracting death
from life at every step
I knew the answer.
Dying was not a private thing.
The truth and the path would die.
How you dreaded the closed doors?
The explicit fear of drowning
in beliefs with brothers of
sorrow and feet of clay.
Gert Strydom, 5 december 2015
At dusk
I
Memories of the past day do flood my mind
and my whole world has changed from what it was before.
I see a movement at the window’s blind,
hear you walk on the wooden floor past the door
but thought struck pass the world rushes on
and the setting sun says that the day is gone.
II
At twilight my study is a peaceful place
and you walk in with a bright smile on your face
and the tranquillity is no longer mine
but outside nature is at rest as if touched by the divine
and inside it’s only you and I
while the first stars do touch a pitch black sky.
Satish Verma, 5 december 2015
My Blue Valley Burns
It was very transparent
death of the shadow;
life moved without it.
We both had seen a huge hunger
and the veil of poverty,
and a cult of familiar lies in
ancient puddles of guilt.
There was no mourning. Love
and hate shaped the duality.
Life and death moved
hand in hand running in mystic silence.
Some thing has evaporated like
a spirit from the wreckage
of emptiness. A witch hunt
started to find the clarity.
A flower melted into a book
a primitive instinct was there
to survive.
My blue valley burns,
I stay attuned to fog.
Smoke and slap of winds.
calling up the sky.
Illusion of peace shattering
the night. The soaring soul floats on
the serene aura of solitude.
I don’t want to wake up again
Satish Verma, 4 december 2015
Mauled Self
Timeless I dream about
a sleepwaking into death,
inside me. Lifting in sound
and the wet silence.
The boisterous stream of years rolls down
like the debris of earthquake
from the hill. Life casts out
the pretentions,
throws the tears at my gate.
That was not me,
the smoke from the footprints
the failed virtue.
Black sweat of my arms started,
the disposition of blind truth.
The enquiry provoked
a further dialogue between time
and sun tanned cancer of a city.
The death of a whistle blower.
In the stillness of mind,
I enter to meet the mauled self.
In the wordless flesh a drama unfolds.
The tongue fixes
the blame of a desireless god
sees only a shining darkness
of a suspended faith.
And a mad fadeout, amputates
the linear thoughts.
Satish Verma, 3 december 2015
Epileptic Truth
When I touched your pshyche,
my completeness wavered.
In the empty words
and hollow thoughts.
The road to my dream house burned.
I longed to meet my flame.
You were listening to declaration of truth.
It was a refuge,
there was no evidence
of any movement of humanity.
My soft mind took the imprint
of golden spaces between
the dark alleys of earth.
The skeletons of history remained unclaimed.
Remembering your trust
My attachment floats. Anxiety
of seeking. The dust smears
the face of epileptic truth.
The clogged arteries of mundane heart twitch.
There wasn’t room for sentiments.
Moment to moment I travelled
to break the silence in vain.
Satish Verma, 2 december 2015
The Forked Tongues
The family evolved from
virtue to virtual image.
I wanted to exhume the body of truth.
Half-way we went to the moon,
half-naked was the bluff.
No choosing, no judging helped.
I saw the fear in eyes.
You found the inside was out
behind the words overnight.
The fountains were dressed up in neon,
something new was in air,
the forked tongues were hissing an arrival.
Cupped mirrors were reflecting the lure
of the city. Thirst was absent.
It was hunger in the heart.
You face had a bleak shade
Darkness? I hide my scent.
Snakes were visible in the bush!
Satish Verma, 1 december 2015
Bliss Of Another Self
Must we go beyond
the black holes of burned books?
The flight from the edge of circles
leaves the dust behind.
Inside our wings are embedded
the years. In the sky
we must part. The parallax is here.
I will pursue the centuries
circling over the memories.
A single page flutters,
rest of the book is silent
not skillful technicality,
only a smuggled simplicity.
I fall into the stillness
of a ceaseless motion,
fall into yesterday.
The feeling to put out
the bright candle is very strong.
A burning solitude.
Face to face with motionless dream
the wide space between letters unfold a meaning.
The absence of central thought
was the essence.
Refusing to churn the evidence,
we forgot that our territories could,
not hold the bliss of another self,
of another relay.
Latest comments:
14 january 2026
Jaga
Kocham cztery polskie pory/ wiosnę, lato, jesień,
14 january 2026
Nie zawsze czas uczy pogody.
14 january 2026
Jeśli znajdziesz drogę, wszystko się może
14 january 2026
Łapią słońce bez bikini/ takie trendy dziś
14 january 2026
To prawda. Za to piękna gra światła :))
14 january 2026
smokjerzy
jakieś wychudzone te pietruszki...:))
14 january 2026
jakiś tam...;)
14 january 2026
od zawsze próbuję upchnąć zbyt wielkie w
14 january 2026
jeśli jest dokąd wrócić...:)
14 january 2026
i prawie mu się udało...
14 january 2026
Weronika
Chciał się powiesić na wymyślonej gałęzi.
13 january 2026
sam53
na pewno jakiś sposób...
14 january 2026
wiesiek
13 january 2026
wiesiek
12 january 2026
wiesiek
11 january 2026
Jaga
10 january 2026
wiesiek
4 january 2026
Jaga
4 january 2026
wiesiek
31 december 2025
wiesiek
30 december 2025
Jaga
27 december 2025
marka